


1,573 Miles From Home

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Season 9, Washington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, distance isn’t only measured in miles and hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1,573 Miles From Home

“Hey. It’s me. Look, I’m sorry, I’m caught up in a thing here and I’m gonna have to take a later flight. I’m not going to get in until 2:30 in the morning and that’s assuming there are no delays. So, um, I’ll take a cab from the airport. Get some sleep. Sorry. Gotta go. I hate … _fuck_ … I love you. Okay … bye. Bye.”

Jack listens until the very end of the message just to hear Daniel breathe through not wanting to disconnect the line, flips his phone shut and swears softly under his breath. He’d been on the house phone to his Walter-alike when Daniel called. They keep missing each other. The irony isn’t lost on him.

He surveys the mess that is his kitchen. How the hell has it gotten this bad? He’s only cooking. He picks up the steak that is marinating nicely and puts it in the refrigerator and tidies up. Then he goes into the living room, plumps a throw pillow in desultory fashion and blows out the candles. He switches off the sound system that’s playing the newly-purchased Ella Fitzgerald CD and stands in the midst of his ruined romantic evening.

Well, fuck, crap and screw you SGC.

At a loss, he takes a shower and doesn’t jerk off despite mentally tracing the curves of Daniel’s body as he soaps and washes, and despite being a hair’s breadth from getting hard just from thinking of holding Daniel and kissing him and simply being with him after six weeks apart.

Being The Man stinks 90 per cent of the time. The 10 per cent that doesn’t stink is when he’s thinking of Daniel, and only Daniel, and not the unrelenting workload that’s swamping them both.

He towels himself dry, checks his body in the bathroom mirror. He’s put on weight. His stomach is a little more rounded. Daniel thinks it’s cute. Jack just wants to breathe in when Daniel’s touching him and believe he still has washboard abs. His face is a little fuller. Daniel says his cheek fits more snugly into his hand, then sets out to prove it by running a thumb gently over his cheekbone as Jack nestles into the warm palm and tries not to moan his quiet delight.

Jack can’t settle to watch TV. He flicks up and down the channels; a few seconds of crime procedurals here, a glimpse of mind-stultifying reality show there. So he wanders into the kitchen and sets up the coffee machine for morning (ridiculously expensive Australian Skyberry, but worth it for the orgasmic sounds of Daniel drinking that first sip). He smiles.

Jack wonders where Daniel is now. Is he still at his desk, frowning through the inevitable headache that comes with working too hard and too long? Or is he in the departure lounge, typically oblivious to the bustle around him and tapping away on his laptop, counting down the minutes until he’s in the air and wishing away the hours until he’s finally at what passes for home for both of them these days?

A restlessness permeates Jack’s body and thoughts. Lately, there’s a sense of dislocation between him and Daniel when they manage to snatch a few precious minutes of conversation on the phone. It isn’t enough time. They talk of work and other people and struggle to say what’s in their hearts. There isn’t nearly enough time to tell Daniel what he wants to say.Needs to say. “I love you. I miss you. I want you here, in my house, in my bed. I can’t stand this.”

Sometimes, distance isn’t only measured in miles and hours.

It frightens him. He wonders if their sense of one-ness, of being two halves of an unbelievably complex whole is only down to a decade of proximity, of shared experience. Of being two men who failed to make it with anyone else. Are they simply each other’s default setting? Will this enforced separation open up cracks that have been hidden under a veneer of friendship that has evolved into something else entirely, to the surprise of both of them?

Fuck. Being alone. Waiting. Not the time to be assessing life, the universe and Daniel.

He mentally shakes himself then decides to make an early night of it. If he’s lucky, he’ll need every bit of strength he can get over the next three days.

Three blissful, wonderful days of loving and touching and holding and loving again. And talking. There will be talking. He can do that, if that’s what Daniel wants. That’s one default setting he never questions.

His heart aches for the want of having Daniel in his arms. His body aches for the taste and feel of muscle and sinew and precious, honey-toned skin beneath his lips and fingers. He wants to be taken hard and fast, and then lie in sweat and tears and his-and-his come. He wants the kind of peace that he’s longed for all his life. He hopes, oh god he hopes, that Daniel wants it, too. He believes Daniel does, but this separation is making him question everything.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand across the back of his neck. He needs a Daniel massage, the kind that relaxes him into sleep. There’s another kind of Daniel massage but that usually ends in “Yes, fuck, more, _harder_ …”

Not wanting to think anymore, Jack calls it quits and heads for the bedroom. Along the way, he secures the house and switches off lights, leaving one on in the hallway. He shaves, brushes his teeth, leaves the bathroom light on and the door slightly ajar and slides into bed. He carefully picks up the precious copy of issue 4, volume 39 of _Aviation_ that Daniel bought him as part of his birthday present. He sniffs the paper. He’s got that little habit from Daniel. He smiles again. He suddenly feels closer to him. After a while, he feels his eyelids sliding shut and settles down to sleep. His thoughts drift and swirl until he’s not sure what is real and what is dream. He thinks of planes and paper files and fishing boats and Daniel’s eyes, and hears Daniel calling his name, softly through layers of drowse, over and over, soothing him like a much-loved and familiar lullaby.

“Jack …. Jack? … It’s me.”

And then he’s here and he’s real and he’s snuggling the glorious, naked length of him flush to Jack’s back. And it’s better than coming home and more than he remembered and ached for. He reaches back and pulls Daniel’s arm over and clasps his hand over his heart. He wants to say something but he’s lost in the languid depths of half-waking and half-sleeping. A cold nose nuzzles his neck and warm breath bathes his neck.

“Don’t wake up. Go back to sleep. It’s okay. Everything’s okay,” Daniel whispers, laying a soft kiss in Jack’s hair.

Jack smiles. Thoughts of separation and dislocation are lost as Daniel shifts in even closer and lets out a ragged _“I made it home”_ sigh.

Sometimes, distance _is_ only measured in miles and hours.

Jack smiles and lets sleep take him.

 

ends


End file.
